The Prophecy of Thrones
by BrokenKestral
Summary: The tree has fallen. Narnia needs hope as they face the coming winter. Thus Aslan gives a carpenter a task and a prophecy.
1. Chapter 1 Hope Bestowed

Disclaimer: This story is almost equal parts Ibersteinmm's and mine; though I wrote it, the ideas in it, from small details to the general theme, came of our conversations; and both of us pay humble tribute to the creator of Narnia, who in turn pays tribute to the one who gives all hope.

"_Hope is what we crave / and that will never change" _\- For King and Country, "Crave"

**Chapter One: Needing Hope**

The tree had fallen. _The_ tree.

The carpenter placed both hands on the planks of wood just beside him, stored in a long, low hall of the stone the dwarfs had built for him. He needed to steady himself. The sons of earth who made his home were burrowing deeper into the earth, for all knew defeat was now coming. The sons of Adam did not have that choice. They could not stay. And so the carpenter would make them ships, ships from the long planks of smooth wood laying beside him. He had already begun, in his workshop, crafting together the ribs of the ship. It was getting too large, and tomorrow centaurs and a giant were coming to carry the wood, workshop, and ribs all to the shore. All Narnia's carpenters were gathering there. They knew what was coming. _The tree had fallen_.

What followed was war. Winter. The Witch. Any human who did not flee would die. Jadis was jealous of what she was not - human. She would hunt the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve to extinction. Now that the tree had fallen many families were fleeing, even while their fathers continued to fight.

_The tree had fallen_. Their hope, their safety. The promise Aslan had given them since the second day; bowed to the earth and broken. It would not be long now; the carpenter himself would be leaving, on a ship he had built, for he too was human. But for now he stood and ran his hand along the wood, freely given from the dryads, who as part of their care for the forests uprooted some trees that others could grow (1). Would any new wood grow now?

Wood, wood was beautiful and sturdy, and even in death it still seemed to be living, with its color and running lines from the rings of the tree's life. But every carpenter now grieved that one tree had been lost, the roots and stump burnt, the immense trunk cut down, and the branches twisted and snapped. Every apple had been burned. The moles had brought the tale, those who had fled. The carpenter's fist clenched. What business had they to flee? They were the tree's protectors! They held Narina's hope in their paws, and they'd left it!

But if they had not fled, they would not have lived to bring the news, and the warning. The fist slowly unclenched, straightening once again on the wood. The warning had been needed.

_Aslan_, the carpenter thought silently, _we are losing. What are we to do when we are losing? Stand and fight? Flee? What would You have us do?_

He asked in silence, and only silence answered him. He turned to go past his workshop to his house.

* * *

His wife had made them food, and they ate in silence. This sorrow had no release in tears.

She did not want to leave Narnia. She grieved as much as him, for the home that would be a memory ending in pain, every hope betrayed. Even with him, the sorrow kept her silent. In silence he mended the fire, and in silence they went to bed. They ran from their sorrow in sleep.

_Come_, he heard deep in the night. He opened his eyes, and saw the Lion. Golden, lit with a subtle, sure light in the darkness, larger than he had ever imagined. Aslan. _Come_, he was bid, and Aslan turned and walked through the door, tail whisking behind him.

Surely he was dreaming. But the carpenter stood and followed, for awake or dreaming, Aslan was his King above all High Kings (though he wasn't sure what that title meant, only that he must obey). And he followed the silent paws of the Lion through his house, out the door, stepping into a silent clearing and into a crowd.

Dryads, swaying into bows before the Lion, their leaves rustling; centaurs, bending from the waist, heads also bent; and there, in the front, moles, tears streaming down their cheeks. Aslan breathed on them, and they trembled. The carpenter recognised them as the moles who had run from the Witch's victory. Here, in the presence of the Lion, his breath on their fur. Was there love in His eyes?

Aslan dismissed the crowd, perhaps without a word; the carpenter wasn't sure. Was he dreaming? But the Lion was moving again, towards the edge of the clearing, and still the carpenter followed. With them stayed one centaur, his hooves rustling the grass, towering above the carpenter as they walked. Aslan led them to a tree trunk, larger than the carpenter's hall, laying where it had been dragged to the edge of the clearing. Many of the branches were burned, and the Lion paused before it in sorrow.

But then He turned, and the carpenter fell to his knees before the eyes of the Emperor's Son.

"You asked what should be done, and this is my answer." Aslan's voice was as quiet as their sorrow, but as large as the sky above them, too immense for his heart to hold. "Take the tree and make four thrones, elaborate in the carving, simple in the construction. When you are done, my own will carry them to Cair Paravel. Carve them, then leave, Son of Adam, for this is my second command to you - to flee." And the carpenter bent his head in obedience, though his eyes filled with tears. Aslan turned to the centaur.

"This will be your task. Jadis will come. She will kill all who speak of humans who lived in Narnia. The memory of how Narnia was ruled will fade and only her reign will be remembered, as the old die and the young are born into a kingdom of ice. But I will not leave them without hope. I give you this task, not to tell of how things were, but to tell of how things will be. Tell of the four thrones and the four who will sit in them. When the two Sons of Adam and two Daughters of Eve sit in those four thrones, it will be the end, not only of the White Witch's reign, but of her life (2)."

And the centaur too bowed, and the carpenter gasped, for the hope sprung strong within him. Hope. Aslan was giving them hope. The tree had fallen, but hope remained. He looked at the Lion and knew with certainty that the winter that was coming would not last forever. Hope would be sight once again, even if he did not know when. And he bowed his head, and felt the breath of the Lion on his forehead. He opened his eyes once again and he was in bed.

He sat up, looking around. All was quiet.

Had it been a dream?

He thought of the certainty he'd had, of the promise that evil would _end_, and clenched his fists. He'd been so sure. He'd believed. But everything was dark, and he closed his eyes that he might not see it. It'd all been a dream. All of it. He wept, silently, trying not to wake his wife. Hope disappointed made him heartsick (3). After several long, dark hours he fell back asleep.

The next morning when he woke and went outside, at the edge of the clearing was a large, fallen tree. Even from a distance he could see it had been partially burned. Hope, rising, despite him trying to choke it down, made him struggle to breathe. He ran over, trembling, touching the burnt crown. It was a huge tree, bare of fruit. It - it could be. It - he passed the crown, moving towards the trunk. And he sank, trembling, to his knees, when he saw next to the trunk the large pawprint of a lion.

OOOOO

(1) This is actually a fairly normal practice - in a clearing, it's better to plant a few young trees closer together, so none of them bears the brunt of snow or wind alone; but as they get larger and sturdier they crowd each other out, and some have to be cut down.  
(2) Quoted from _The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe  
_(3) A verse from Proverbs paraphrased; it's actually "Hope deferred makes the heart sick." It's been a comfort to me to know that God knows how much waiting for what we long for is difficult.


	2. Chapter 2 Hope Beset

**Chapter Two: Hope Beset**

The giant and the centaurs came; he sent them away with wood and the ribs of the ship, but not his workshop. That he needed, for the task Aslan had set.

And he argued with them, leaning on his axe, when they tried to make him flee as well.

"The sons of Adam will need you," one centaur said. "They will need your faith in Aslan."

"The ones in the future need me more." The carpenter stood straight and lifted his axe onto his shoulder. "Aslan told me to stay here, till the thrones are carved." He looked up, up, and up, into the giant's face. "Take the ship bottom, and the wood, and go," he called up. "I have need of the workshop." The giant, good-natured, obedient, and brave (and not many giants remained on their side), hefted the wood onto one shoulder and reached down his other hand to the ship's ribs. He picked it up, cradling it, and turned to go. "My thanks, Rumblebuffin!" the carpenter called after him, and the giant looked back, giving him an enormous smile.

"Death to the witch!" he called over his shoulder and left, his footsteps shaking the ground more than a dwarfish mine underfoot. The carpenter turned back to the centaurs.

"I do not see the wisdom in this, but I will not argue with what you believe to be Aslan's will," the leader said finally. "We go to the shore, to offer what help we can to your kin. If you choose to leave, there will always be room for you." He, too, turned and thundered away, the rest following him, though two bowed to the carpenter before leaving. And he smiled, for he saw in their faces what had been given to him: hope. He turned and walked across the clearing.

The tree was large, wide enough he and his wife together could not have put their arms around it, and taller than his hall was long. Four thrones, he thought, running his eyes along the length, and marking it into sections.

He took his axe and held it above the first mental mark, but stopped. He hesitated. Was this Aslan's will? To chop into the tree that had protected them so long? To cut it to pieces, as their enemies had?

No. Not as their enemies had. This was different. This was giving it a life after death. One day Adam's race would sit on these thrones, and all of Narnia would once again look there for protection. He swing.

_Thwack._ He raised his axe, swinging it forward, hand sliding down the handle (1). _Thwack. _Swing. _Thwack_. Swing. _Thwack. _Swing. _Thwack. Creak. _Again, and again the tree creaked; another hit and the wood split.

It was beautiful. He took a breath, the carpenter in him swelling with anticipation. The wood was beautiful, old and firm, textured, no rot or defects visible. He walked further down and swung again.

Morning passed, and his wife came to fetch him. He had told her of his hope that morning, and she had been as silent as the night before. Buoyed by his hope, it had not bothered him. She served him outside, in the shade of the fallen tree, with the same silence as she sat beside him. She had already eaten; she had needed to unpack her kitchen to make it.

"You do not believe me," the carpenter said, setting down his food on the green grass. His wife looked down, studying the grass of their home. He could read the sorrow in her face. "Sarah," he said, "do you not believe Aslan would give us hope?"

"Hope of what?" Her voice started soft, but grew fiercer. "Of her defeat in the far future? What good is Jadis's death if it comes when we are old, as good as dead? When our home, our _Narnia_, are things we leave? When this grass," and she ran her fingers through it, "will be covered in snow and never grow again in our lifetime? I have days, _days_, till we leave and never return. What good is _hope_ when it's not for us?"

Silently the carpenter picked up his food and started to eat again. Aslan's promise had been enough for him. The knowledge that evil _would _be defeated was enough. But he was not his wife.

"I _know_ I must reach my own answer. Stop looking at me like that." She turned to the tree, running the hand that had been in the grass along its trunk, still covered in bark. "I might as well as why the tree lasted so long as ask why it fell now," and her soft tone was back. "Somehow it's easier to question the bad things than the good." She fitted her fingers in crevice, needing to _feel_ the tangible reality of the promise that had already been kept. She kept a hand resting on it - remembering - till he got up to work again. She collected their things and went inside.

He worked on the tree all day, till the sun set and he was no longer sure of his eyesight, and where to place the blows. But he looked at the tree and felt satisfied. He had done much of Aslan's good work that day.

He went inside. His wife, for all her doubts, had obeyed. What little they could take that they did not need was still in bags for them to carry, but all the things for daily life were unpacked and replaced in their house. He smiled. It was good to come in from his work to his home.

His wife spoke at dinner of going out to gather food; they had given most of theirs away to travelers, knowing they could forage for themselves better than mothers could. He nodded, tired out, and they soon went to bed.

They both rose before the sun, and she cooked for them. He spoke of the work left to do, of shaping and smoothing the wood, of making the rough shapes before he began the carvings. He spoke of how much he wanted to accomplish that day; and she told him where she would be gathering food, and mentioned trying to hunt, now that most Talking Beasts were in hiding or on the battlefield. It was a good idea.

By first light he was outside, axe once more cutting away. He would finish long before noon, he knew, but still he was anxious to go with all speed his skill could manage. He raised his axe for another blow when he stopped.

He'd heard something.

A cry, faint. Too far to tell if it was triumph or terror. He slid his axe down to get a firm grasp and listened again.

Nothing.

No wind. No rustling.

No calls, no chirps, no paws skittering or tromping.

There! That - that was his wife. He broke into a run, towards where she had gone to gather, and then stopped in terror.

That had not been her cry. That had been a roar, the roar of an evil and vicious thing in triumph. _Run_. Faster, faster, to go to her, to find her, he had to find her. Panting, gripping his axe, listening, begging, _running_. The roars were louder. He could no longer hear her cries.

Around a tree, into the meadow where the dryads grew berries for their friends, and there, there was a minotaur. In a glance he saw it roaring, open mouthed, its own axe dangling from its fist, and two arrows in its chest.

Hunting arrows. Not strong enough to penetrate the armor. But one in its axe arm. The carpenter raised his axe with his own shout, the minotaur turned, and he cut it down. It died instantly, its cries leaving a ringing silence. The carpenter panted, looking around, at that tree, that bush, the whole clearing - where was she?

He saw her crumbled at the foot of a tree, probably thrown. He dropped his axe and ran to her, fingers on her arms, checking her neck, her back, feeling for broken bones, as he had done for many of their neighbors' children. Begging her to wake up, calling "Sarah!" again and again. She didn't stir.

There were no bones broken that he could find, nor blood. But on the back of her head he found a swelling bump, and he looked at her face with fear.

Aslan never promised they'd both leave, he realised distantly. Only that he would.

Please, Aslan, no. I have lost so much. Not her, not her too. Please.

She still didn't wake. He gathered her, arms that had carried wood well able to lift her, her bow laying on top in her still-clenched fist. He turned towards their home. If she woke, he could come back for his axe. But now he needed to get her home.

To the place she didn't want to leave.

* * *

She woke on the way home. He nearly dropped her as she flailed, struggling to reach for another arrow and hitting him in the face with the bow. He fell to his knees, setting her down.

"Sarah! Sarah! You're safe!" He grabbed her shoulders. "You're safe."

She was still wary, looking around, quick breaths on his face. "Minotaur," she gasped.

"It's dead."

She looked at him, her breathing slowing, her eyes finally fixing on him. "Good," she said. "Stupid minotaur."

She made them go back for the axe and basket. He needed his axe and she needed the basket for their dinner, she argued. Not to mention lunch. She wanted to eat.

He went back with her, and inside the house with her, unwilling to let her out of his sight. She claimed she was fine, but he struggled to believe it just yet. He set the axe by the door, in quick reach if they heard something, and helped her prepare the two small rabbits she'd caught. He cleaned them in the window, despite her scolding. After supper she sent him outside the house, telling him she needed some space to breathe, and he went to the tree.

_Aslan_, he asked silently_, am I right to stay? _He thought of the minotaur, the other soldiers that would be coming, and of his wife. Did he not have a duty to her as well? _Aslan, should we leave? Should __she__ leave?_ Only silence answered him, and he went into the house, to his already-sleeping wife, and went to sleep.

He woke in the morning with no answer still. He had been given a task, though, and he knew he could keep watch outside. He went back to working on the wood, dragging it into his workshop.

He ran his tools over it, beginning to shape the first. He had determined to make them all the same size. He thought as he worked of telling his wife to leave.

He knew that would not go well.

He could tell her to. But she would tell him, before argumentatively obeying, that his order came from fear and it was therefore stupid.

Fear was never a good reason for deliberate reactions. He'd heard an owl say once that Aslan's love cast out fear (2).

_Aslan, keep her safe. I am not sure I can._

_And I do not think I can leave. I knew the hope too well, before this fear, to leave. _

"Why four?" He jerked and dropped his tool. So much for keeping watch; his wife was standing behind him. "Why four thrones, do you think?"

"I do not know." He picked up his tool and started rubbing away the splinters again.

"You would not have dreamed four," and her hand on his shoulder was gentle and her voice soft. He stopped, and rested his head on the wood.

"I do not worry that I dreamed it," he told her. "I worry that I did not dream you would go with me when I left."

She was silent for a moment. "If these are my last days, I do not want to spend them rebelling. If they are my last days in Narnia, I do not want to them to be bad memories." She ran her hand across his shoulders, then reached around to touch the wood he was leaning against. "I was afraid to leave this, you know. To leave Narnia. To leave _home_." She stood straight; he could feel her place both hands on him. "But we would not be leaving Aslan, and I would not be leaving you. That is enough." She walked away, back towards their house. "I'm still wondering why there's four thrones," she called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the house.

He finished his work and went to bed.

There were no more good dreams that night. Nightmares plagued him, of his wife captured, dying; of them finding the tree and burning the rest of it; of Aslan's promises never fulfilled.

He finished the rough shape of the first throne the next day and started the second one, hoping he would be tired enough to sleep the night through.

He wasn't.

Worse, he dreamed of evil winning, of Jadis holding a stone knife and plunging it into Aslan, and woke up with tears on his face. That dream had felt like more than a whisper of imagination; it felt _true_.

He went to the thrones in the workshop the next day and almost felt like burning them himself. "How can this be victory?" he asked. Aslan dead. His wife. He went back inside without touching the wood.

His wife glared at him and shooed him back out. But she came with him. "Tell me," she told him. He told her of his dream, of the evil forces mocking Aslan, of the two girls hiding, of the knife plunging down. She grew white and left.

He worked. He worked because it was the last thing he had to cling to, in the dreams and nightmares and worry. Aslan had told him to do this. Aslan had promised. He _needed_ to believe evil would end, when it was all around him. When it killed even Aslan.

It _couldn't_ kill Aslan. Aslan was the source of the tree's life; Aslan commanded the four thrones; without Aslan, every promise was null.

He kept working.

Aslan didn't break His promises.

He kept working. The third throne was smooth under his hands.

He kept working.

Past sunset, as his wife came with a lit lantern. Past suppertime; the plate of food untouched. Past when she came and got it, and told him that if he had seen two girls, perhaps they were the daughters of Eve. He didn't respond, just worked. Past when his wife went to bed, coming out to him and calling him. If he did not sleep, he would see no more nightmares.

If he did not sleep, he would not have to face how much hope felt betrayed. How it crumbled in his dreams.

OOOOO

(1) Any knowledge I have of tree-chopping (on down trees) comes from several uncles and my father in rural WV who were chopping firewood, and from using a sledgehammer here to chop ice (not like Frozen, we just need clear driveways). It's probably the same in Narnia, so it should be similar rhythm and movement.  
(2) A paraphrase of the Bible verse "Perfect love casts out fear," and therefore not mine.


	3. Chapter 3 Hope Becomes Sight

A/N: This particular story was not listening to my plan for it in the last chapter, so this chapter was born out of continually messaging a very patient Iberstienmm to bounce ideas till they settled into a new outline. Hopefully it fulfills the promise I thought it had in the first chapter. Sigh. It's been stubborn, and I'm not a gracious loser.

**Chapter Three: Hope Becomes Sight**

The night wore on. Gradually his eyes grew heavy; his hand fumbled, the tools scrapping the wood. He leaned forward more and more, and at last he dozed, his head on the seat of the throne, the tool still in his hand.

No matter how much he didn't want to, he fell asleep.

_Peace_, said a voice he knew well. _My peace I give to you._

And he dreamed once more, of the death of Aslan. Of the night life itself was bound and stabbed. Of Jadis's other victory, in all its despair.

But he dreamed more. He saw the dawn coming, a crack ringing through the air, and Aslan rising. He saw Him standing in the sun, roaring, Narnia ringing with His voice. He saw Aslan _laughing_. Death could not hold him. Death itself was defeated.

He woke, shaking, hands still on the third throne. Aslan. Aslan rose. He clenched the wood. This dream also had been real. As real as Aslan's promise. As real as hope made sight.

He should have had hope.

He turned to the door and saw his wife, standing near the first throne. Light was flooding the workshop.

"He rose," the carpenter told her, his voice cracked from sleep. "Sarah, Aslan rose. He died, but He rose." Her face changed, lifted to the light, and he watched hope flood her. "He rose."

And she helped him outside, where they both stood, him leaning on her, and watched the dawn as he told her of another dawn that would come with the living Lion rising, and laughing. And that dawn held wonder for them both.

When the sun cleared the treetops he looked back into his workshop, grateful once again that Aslan had given this task to him.

One more throne to build.

* * *

His wife made him sleep first. She argued working wouldn't do any good if his work was making mistakes he'd have to fix later. Tired, he hadn't the brains to argue with her, and went and slept the whole morning. By afternoon he was back in the workshop, making the fourth throne. Aslan would die, but rise. Jadis would die, when these four thrones were filled, and not come back. These things he would take on faith. He ran his hand along the beautiful wood, and bent to finish the bottom. He was almost done, and it was evening.

That night, he and his wife ate and were happy, thanking Aslan for food, spring, and life itself. Thanking Him for the present blessings, and the hope He had given of future ones. They slept in peace.

The next morning he asked Sarah over breakfast to come with him to the workshop. They cleaned up, setting the dishes in water to soak, and walked to the workshop. Sitting along the long hall were the four thrones, shaped but without decoration.

"I do not know what to carve on them (1)," he told her. She turned, studying them.

"Well, one throne will be for the one who is above the other three, and must be magnificent. I think it should be this one," and she touched the one second in the hall, slightly larger than the others. And the carpenter looked at it and saw a crown, carved into the top, and the arms, each with a lion's roaring face. It was, the carpenter thought, for one of the sons of Adam. Aslan, guide our choices, he said silently.

"I think this one, for the other son of Adam," he said, pointing to the fourth chair, the one done last. It was of a darker wood, more sober than the others, beautiful and solemn. "It looks like a chair of judgement," his wife said, and he thought to carve an open book, with the word _Wisdom_ carved where the king's back would rest, and the face of Aslan, grave, upon the arms.

"What of the first?" Sarah looked at it, the curve of the back into the arms more graceful than the others, the top straight and yet not rigid. "It looks welcoming, gentle," she said. "As if the queen would be the hostess."

The carpenter pondered for a moment, dismissing a dove, as that was more of peace than gentleness. And the throne called for beauty as well. "Lilies," he said finally, looking at Sarah. "Lilies at the top, carved curling in the arch (2)?" She nodded, approving. And the arms would have Aslan's face with welcoming eyes, as best as he could carve them, with _Grace _written on the backrest. They both turned towards the last throne, the third to be carved, and the one where he had slept and dreamed of Aslan's death and the dawn that followed it. It was the lightest wood, taken from the newest part of the tree, young and light.

"I do not know," Sarah said at last. She was still studying it. "We have a crown, a judge, a gentle hostess - what are they lacking? Who else would Aslan send?"

The carpenter thought. "If they are taking on Jadis, when she is both witch _and_ queen, they will need courage," he said at last, and Sarah clasped her hands together.

"Courage," she said. "But not just for herself, I think. Courage for all; she will need to inspire courage, even in those who have fallen to Jadis."

The carpenter thought of his own dream, of the courage and hope that had been restored. "A rising sun," he said at length. "And Aslan laughing on the arms." He hesitated. "And - perhaps - under the sun, the words "_Courage_, _dear heart_." He paused. "Though if the other three have words, the High King's should as well." But what? He thought, picturing again the crown, the lions roaring. And thought of the roar of Aslan, which would one day silence Jadis herself. "_The Lion roars_," he decided (3).

Sarah clapped her hands. "Well, that's done. You might as well start," she said, returning to her brisk self, now that the weighty task was over. "I'm going to gather more food." And despite the hope, the courage that had been given to him, the work he was willing to do on faith, the carpenter found himself reaching for her, staying her with a hand on her arm. She looked back at him. "I will take your axe, if you're worried," she said a little impatiently. "But we need food, I can swing the axe, and you must finish this. Soon. I would like to be gone before Jadis's soldiers - or her winter - arrive."

He hesitated. The last time - Sarah not waking in his arms - was never something he wanted to repeat.

But Aslan had given him a hope he was required to give to others. And that hope required trust. "Be careful," he told Sarah seriously, releasing her.

"They'd best be careful of me, if I have your axe" she said, but she smiled. "Stop _worrying_. We're in Aslan's paws here as surely as we will be safe on a ship, or in a new home." And she left. The carpenter turned and went to the side, gathering his tools. He would begin by carving the rising sun; it would remind him that Aslan did triumph. But he kept an ear out the entire morning, the door open. He carved the rays; only peace outside his doors. He carved the words, tools sliding slowly into the curves of the larger _D_. Completed; still only quiet. He carved the _e_, the _a_, and felt his hand cramping after the tiny curve of the _r_. _Dear_, he thought, laying down the tools. _Dear heart_. Surely Aslan, who would care for this future queen, cared for them as well. For Sarah, hunting food.

Faith, Aslan, he asked quietly. My faith is small. But Your promise is sure.

He moved to carve the crown on the higher king's throne. This time he got lost in his work, fixed on the wood silvering into shapes under his hands.

Sarah returned without incident. He did not notice till she brought him food, and they finished their day, once again, in peace.

For it was not until the next morning that winter came.

They were at breakfast, his fork in his mouth, when they heard a _crack_ on their window, and looked to see it covered in frost. They looked at each other - there was fear in his wife's eyes - and he stood, pushing the chair back, grabbed his axe from the stand, and opened the door.

It was a sea of white, the tree branches already bending under the weight, and frost covered his feet in moments. He slammed the door, locking it, and Sarah was by his side, shoving a towel across the threshold, holding the cold back. "The window upstairs, it's open," she panted, and he took the stairs two at a time. He opened the bedroom door. He shivered; the room was filled with snow. He ran through it, gasping and cringing as his bare feet sank in the biting cold white blanket, to shut the bedroom window. He heard a gasp behind him and turned to see Sarah.

"The downstairs window was open as well," she said. Her tone was defeated. "It's through half the house; it crept from this door into the hall and stairs as well."

"Sarah."

She hesitated. "Will it always be like this?" she burst out. "A defeat, a dream, another defeat, another dream? I'm _tired_ of not winning! I'm tired of taking evil's defeat on faith when our defeat is making you shiver! It's in _our house!_" She paused. "It's in our house," she said more quietly.

The carpenter crossed the room, still wincing as he stepped, and he took Sarah in his arms; she clung tightly. "Couldn't He have kept it away till we left?" her words were muffled in his shoulder.

Yes, He could have. But He didn't. "We'll spend the morning in the workshop, just to keep warm," he told Sarah. "You can clear our home by bits. I'll work on the thrones." He pushed her back a little and caught her face in his hands. "We will leave soon," he said more softly. "He told us to flee, Sarah. It was for a reason."

She closed her eyes - she wouldn't cry, not his brave Sarah. "I hate this reason," she said, but her words were quieter. She brought her hands up to his, squeezed, then took them off her face. "Go get to work; I'll build up the fire and be there shortly."

He went, slipping on his boots, running through the blizzard, and slamming the workshop door shut. It was dark inside, chilly, and the thrones themselves seemed shadows. He went first to the fireplace, kneeling to build a fire. He had nothing to say to Sarah's questions; he was asking them himself. Faith, Aslan had given him faith, even to hear Aslan Himself say evil would be defeated. But what good was hope, when now was so dark, so cold, and so hopeless?

But when he could not command his heart to be still, he could still command his hands to obey. The workshop, at least, was warm, warm enough to work. He went to the graceful, welcoming throne, gentle strength in its wood, and began to carve the lilies. Something beautiful, in the midst of defeat; beauty that pierced the heart yet strengthened it.

He had completed the first one when Sarah arrived, hands red, skirt stiff with ice. She went right to the fire and held her hands over it, standing close enough steam rose around her. He looked at her, hair curled on her neck by the water, a halo from the light outlining her. It was another moment of beauty.

"The snow's out of the bedroom and the hall; I threw it out the upstairs window." Her voice was all common sense, and he ached with this, too - with wondering if she'd survive this winter. And even if she did, if her faith would. Would Aslan win this victory, when He was letting them lose everywhere else?

He turned back to his work. Obedience was all he had left to offer; but his eyes were blurred with water. He wiped them on the back of his hand, then went back to slowly, carefully running the blade in a small curve of a lily's stem.

"I did not mean to question like that," said a quiet voice just behind him, and Sarah's hands were laid on his shoulders. They were cold enough he felt the chill through his shirt; cold because of what the witch had done to her. "Aslan told us she would win. We did know this was coming."

"It does not make it much easier to endure through it," he said grimly. He paused his work, trying to stop the tremors in his hand.

"But even defeat is not outside his plans," and she ran one hand through his hair. "I've been thinking - I had some time to do it, to get all my grumbling out, my questions at Him, while scooping out the snow. Grumblings not always good, but sometimes it brings out the right questions. I asked why He'd let this defeat happen." She slipped her arms around his shoulders. "Your dream, that awful one, that was a defeat too. I can't for the life of me think why He'd let a defeat like that happen, but defeat didn't hold him, anymore than the snow in our house is going to stay. It'll be gone by tomorrow."

"The winter won't."

"No, but we will. He told us to flee, and we will. He's sending us where summer is. And He'll come back Himself to see to the Witch." She let go with one arm to place her hand over his with the tool, cradling it and lifting it back up to the top of the throne. "This is all He's asked us to do right now, and it's something we can do, even with a snow-filled house. So let's do it, and show the Witch she can't stop Aslan's work, even with her winter."

His brave, fiery Sarah. So well equipped to scorn the Witch's winter; and to find her hope, not in victory, but in battle, because for her just fighting meant she had hope. He went back to carving the lily, and his wife let him go, standing up.

"Sarah, thank you," he said, eyes still on his work.

"I told you grumbling does some good," she teased. She went over to his tools, starting to put them back into the order she preferred. They spent the morning working together, with Sarah occasionally leaving to go clear out the house. She had it habitable by dinnertime, and they ate and were satisfied. The lilies were done, as well as the arms; and he had done the arms under the crown as well. Only one more design and four arms, and the thrones would be complete. One more day should be enough.

A small part of him feared that day. A pattern was developing, a pattern Sarah had noticed, of the work going forward, and defeat following. If there was one more day - what defeat would herald the completion of Aslan's task?

OOOOO

(1) I can't remember any descriptions from the books of the actual thrones, so I'm making it up as I go, but please correct me if there is and I missed it.  
(2) For those who aren't aware, Susan's name means Graceful Lily.  
(3) This was also inspired by one of my favorite WillowDryad stories, "At the Sound of His Roar," and the refrain "The Lion roars" that Peter and Edmund repeat in their song, and posted with permission from WillowDryad. The story can be found at s/7682692/1/At-the-Sound-of-His-Roar.


	4. Chapter 4 Fire

**Chapter Four: Fire**

Fears or not, the work still waited. The tops of three thrones were finished, and the open book on the Judge's throne and _Wisdom_ did not take long, though the small slivers that represented the gradually recessing pages made his hands ache. He took a break, going to the workshop door.

White. The ground, piled with unbroken white, the trees hidden underneath it, the sky clouded and white as well. All the world was muffled; and then he shivered. It was cold, heat behind him in the fire, the world biting. It reminded him of the wide-awake chill before Christmas. Only this cold wasn't followed by a jolly red wise man, but by a figure of nightmares. He tried to picture her for a moment and realized, startled, that he couldn't. Wounded Narnian soldiers spoke of a tall figure wielding a sword, and, once, a wand, but none who got close came back to tell tales.

He went back in and shut the door. No more white; not now. He wanted to finish, finish this task. Now for the glistening brown wood, tinted red or black, polished and gleaming in the firelight. It was time for the arms of the thrones.

He'd had a lion friend, a young, impetuous, ever-talking cat, yellow and large enough to barrel him over. He'd joined the fight as soon as he was old enough, saying, "Us lions have to fight. We're like Aslan. He's a lion too (1)." But the carpenter could still remember him roaring, mouth open, eyes large, white teeth gleaming, and he carved that fierceness on the arms of the High King's chair, the hands resting on the top of the main, ears parted to hold the future king's fingers. There, the throne was done. He looked at it a moment; somehow it made the urgency greater. Three more, three to finish, and finish soon. Next came the throne with Grace, and he remembered the warmth of the lion's mother, before she had died at the teeth of a wolf pack led by a werewolf. He cut away more wood; the mouth was closed, but the eyes, wood though they were, seemed living. He rested a moment, looking at them, breathing. He hoped for a welcome like that, wherever they went next.

Two more sets of lions. He must get started; they must be finished. But Sarah came in before he could start on them. "It's night," she said softly. He looked up, startled. "Come on, carver of mine," she said, pulling him up, putting his arm over her shoulder.

He shook himself, and took his arm off. "I need to finish this tonight." She started to object, impatient; he said, "I _have_ to."

Sarah paused, looking up at him. "You are sure of this?"

He nodded. "I do not know why." He shifted, shoulders shrugging and fingers suddenly aching to pick up his tools again. "But they _must_ be finished tonight." She sighed, practical, and not looking forward to a long night.

"I'll stay with you," she said, a sigh in her words; but her hand touched his shoulder gently as she passed. "I'm going to go get my knitting; we could use mittens in this winter."

He nodded again, already picking up his tools and going to the slightly darker throne, sitting before _Wisdom_ to carve a grave lion on the arms. For this he remembered Aslan, as he had seen him weeping by the tree but also breathing on the broken moles, the tree-keepers, with mercy and sorrow and that strange look that was wisdom; he took the portion of wisdom and deepened the eyes, setting them further back to make them grave, and a mouth firm. He finished the mane and looked up; Sarah was sitting by the fire, a single mitten on her lap and a knotted line of dark yarn on her two glinting needles (2).

"Are you warm enough?" he asked suddenly, remembering her care. They used to do this often. Before the war. Before care made life heavy, and death made it precious. Before there was too much to do and not enough Narnians to do it, and wisdom was necessary as a strong and able body. She had always gotten cold in his workshop during the winters.

"I'm by the fire," she replied dryly. "Fire usually makes people warm." She looked over at the thrones. "They are beautiful," she said softly. "One more left."

"The lightest one," he said. He stretched his fingers, and got up to move his stool to the fourth throne. "The face of a lion laughing."

"Courage and laughter." She finished her row, stopping to curl the yard in a small circle over her needles, hooking it into the last row in order to begin the next. "It's a good way to end this task."

He sat, bent over to stretch his back, and began. He was so, so close.

Carve away the top, smoothing out the ears. The eyes high up, and he remembered them, deep, filled with a joy and life strong enough to give life to the dead. Aslan laughing in the light of dawn. Aslan _winning_.

He carved the last night, picking out some extra around the eye, and set his tool down.

He was done.

Four thrones. Four thrones, the embodiment of Aslan's promise. He wondered, for the first time, who would come and carry them to Cair Paravel. The castle, he knew, would not be the Witch's; though she might claim its title (3). No ruler had ever been able to make it their own, though it had fallen before. But if the winter was here, so was the Witch. How would they move the thrones? And when?

Should he stay to see it? To make sure the thrones were safe, before fleeing? Or did his task end with their creation?

He did not know.

He set his tools down, the act suddenly arresting. This would be the last time he did so in Narnia, in this workshop. He slowly, carefully gathered the tools up, placing them in the leather wrap, then rolling the wrap up. He stood, picking up the stool to place against the stone wall. He stood straight and turned; Sarah was watching him.

"The last project," she said, sadness in her tone. He looked at her lap; five mittens lay there. He raised an eyebrow, trying to lighten their last time here.

"I was bored," she said defensively.

He smiled, striding past her and banking the fire. He stood, looking around, rememorizing the tools, the carefully laid stone walls, the fire in one of the long walls. Home; but no longer. He turned to his wife. "Are we ready to leave?" he asked her softly.

She nodded, sighing heavily. They both paused, looking at the thrones.

"Tomorrow," he said. "We do not know when Aslan's own will come, but we must be ready to obey His command at any time."

She stood up, her back cracking. "Ouch. I don't like snow much right now." She gathered all five mittens in one hand and kept her needles in the other. "Come on. One more night here, in our home, at least." He reached over and held the door open for her, and tried to dismiss the foreboding her words brought, but his stomach felt sick.

Somehow, he wasn't sure they'd have one more night. He took his axe with him into their bedroom that night, and Sarah didn't comment on it. (4) He put the head on the floor, the handle resting against the wall by the head of the bed, and crawled under the covers. He took Sarah in his arms, for warmth, and because he wanted to make sure she was _there_. She clung to him as well, and his heart started to calm. Despite his uneasiness, it was late, and he was warm, and he fell asleep.

He woke to a strange sound, familiar, rustling, crackling, but louder than he remembered hearing it. He opened his eyes, and thought it must be dawn, for the wall was covered in red light.

There wasn't a window on the opposite wall to let the light in. And he was suddenly aware that it was very, very warm.

He rolled over, reaching for the axe, handle fitted to his hand. Warm wood under his feet, and there, around the door, the house was in flames.

The fire wasn't crackling, it was roaring, deafening, red and hot and touching the ceiling; he started choking on the smoke.

"Sarah!" He bent over, reaching across the bed to shake her, breathing in the clearer air. "Sarah, wake up!"

He saw her startle, eyes open, blazing in the reflected light. "Sarah, _come on_!" He grabbed her arm, pulling hard, off the bed, both hitting the floor; his elbow ached, but they were below the smoke. She was clearer-headed than him, and grabbed the axe. She moved, crawling as fast as she could towards the door, swinging the axe back and hitting it open. He grabbed her, snatching her back across the floor as fire roared through. "We're trapped!" she screamed in his ear, and he shook his head, looking wildly around.

"The window!" He laid forward, reaching for the axe, and pulling it and his wife towards the other wall. The room seemed so large, and the palms of his hands were burning from the heat of the floor. The wall; he sat up, reaching for the window, and pushing the bottom of the frame open. Fresh air, cooler; he gasped it in.

"Go!" Sarah was pushing him and the axe. He stood, bending out the window, and looking down.

Laughter, barely heard over the fire, but dwarfish laughter; and he could see three of them, chilling grins reflected in the fire, black beards shadows on their faces.

Fight or burn. He grabbed the axe, prayed a quick prayer to Aslan, and threw one leg out the window. He grasped the axe firmly and threw his other leg out, holding onto the frame with both hands. He hung himself down to his full length and looked up; Sarah was in the window.

"Go!" she said.

She couldn't jump; not without breaking something. Possibly her neck. He couldn't leave her there.

"The thrones!" Her eyes were begging him; sometime they'd become her hope too. "You cannot let them have the thrones!" Her hands were on his fingers, uncurling them, and he knew she would make him drop.

Aslan, let me hurry. Keep her safe!

He dropped. The snow crunched under his feet and he slipped; he rolled axe still in hand, rolling to his feet, snow ice on his back after the heat. The dwarfs were running, They'd heard him land, and came with their axes up. He swiped first, knocking two into the snow; the third he quickly killed. The other two were climbing up; he quickly finished their fight before both recovered themselves.

He turned to the workshop; the door was burning, the roof, but the stone walls, they wouldn't. He looked back at the house; it was one roaring fire. The workshop. The house. The workshop. He closed his eyes; he knew what Aslan's command had been, and he begged Aslan, please, please, please. Please, alive, Sarah, safe. Please. He was begging as he ran towards the thrones. At the door he stopped, stooping down to scoop up snow and throw in on the flames, backing it in an armful and dropping it. It melted, the wood black or embers. He rushed in, grabbing the first throne, and flinging it out the door. The second, the wood hot under his fingers; he threw it out of the dark hole. The third, the fourth, still begging Aslan to save Sarah; he rushed the fourth out himself, dropping it at a safe distance and looking back to the house. He ran to the wall; too high; he ran back to the throne and grabbed it, using it as a stepping stool to put him in reach of the window ledge. He grabbed it, yelped and let go. It burned his hands, badly; it was a live ember. He took a deep breath, grabbed it again, and pulled himself up, the hot wood burning his hands till he screamed, scaring a burn on his arm as he rolled over the ledge. He fell to the floor, crying.

Breathe. Breathe through the pain. For Sarah. He had to find Sarah. He blinked away the water; the smoke was just as thick. He laid full-length on the floor; still too thick too see. But there, wait, he could hear coughing! He could hear her; so close, _somewhere_, as loud as the roar of the fire. He pulled himself forward, sobbing as he used his burned hands.

"Sarah!" he screamed. The coughing stopped. "_Sarah_!"

A hand touched him, his side, and he jumped; then grabbed it. Sarah's fingers; her hand; he thought, he could barely feel. He put her hand on his shoulder and turned around. He was moving by feel, unable to see. He ran into a wall; feel it. His hands hurt to badly; he used his arm. Up, up, hot wood, there! The window! Another burn on his arm, but the window was there! He pulled Sarah forward by her arm, standing up and pushing her out, still holding her hand. He bent over, the wood burning into his stomach, but he lowered her, screaming again at his burned hands, but lowering, lowering, and then he lost his grip. "_Sarah!_" He couldn't hear; he grabbed the burning wood again, lowered himself, and lost his grip a second time, dropping into the snow. The pain in his hands was so bad he nearly blacked out. Breathe in, sob, breathe in. Hands, touching him, pulling at his shoulders, his head. They grabbed his burning hands and pushed them down, into something chilling and white. That _push_ sent pain through his wrists, and everything went dark.

The cold came back first; the cold, and the pain. The sound, the roaring, cracking, and something falling. He opened his eyes and saw Sarah first, kneeling beside him, her head turned to the side to look at something. He lifted his head; their house. It was twenty feet away, and it was falling in on itself. Sarah's cheeks were wet as she watched, and the carpenter tried to lift his hand to wipe them away.

He hit her cheek instead. She looked down at him quickly.

"Thank you Aslan, thank you Aslan, thank you, thank you thank you," she muttered, resting her hands on either side of his face. "Can you hear me?"

"Sarah?" he asked weakly.

"We're out, we're out, and there's three dead dwarfs, and the thrones are sitting in the snow, but you're _alive_," and she was still crying, tracing his cheeks. "_You're alive_."

He lifted a hand up again, but paused partway.

He couldn't feel anything, no cold, no pain. He opened his mouth to say something and started coughing. Sarah lifted him up, struggling against his heavy weight, but pulling him against her. By the time he finished and could breathe, her arms were around him and he was facing their burning house. They sat for a while, just breathing, the melted snow starting to make their clothes wet. Somehow it didn't seem to matter.

"Aslan was with me," Sarah said softly. "His breath – I could breathe, I didn't even taste the smoke, till just before I heard your voice, and I started coughing." She held her husband a little more tightly, and they were quiet for a little longer. "You finished the thrones just in time," she said at last, and if her voice was matter-of-fact, the carpenter could hear the dryness underneath it.

The thrones. The carpenter groaned and sat up, looking for them. Sarah had dragged him away from the house, and the throne as well, setting it beside him. It was the throne of the judge, set up right, facing the house. The other three – there, by the workshop door, one upright, one on its back, and one on its side. He got up. Slowly. First to his knees, the kneecaps getting wet, then his body upright, then to his feet, Sarah holding him up every time he wavered. Together they walked towards the thrones, and he ran his hand along the roaring lion on the upright throne.

Nothing. He couldn't feel anything.

Maybe – maybe it would heal. He turned towards the throne on its side, and grabbed the carved lilies to pull it upright. Sarah was already setting the rising sun upright. The two looked at each other. _What now_?

The carpenter heard a sound behind him, a sound of heat meeting snow - but closer than the house should be. He saw Sarah's eyes grow very, very wide, her entire front suddenly outlined, clear in a light shining both red and _white_. He turned.

A man was standing there, a man with a wise, fierce face, older than the carpenter but not old, with long hair like burning silver and a spear like white-hot metal (5). A light burning white and fierce and blinding came from his very person, brighter than the red fire of their crumbling home.

The carpenter closed his eyes in terror. He felt himself shaking at this fear of the unknown, of beauty beyond what he had seen before, save for Aslan's dawning. This man was not Jadis's. He forced his eyes open, breathing hard, and his hands trembled on the throne.

A brilliant, flashing white light, he closed his eyes once more, and heard again that sound of melting snow. He opened them, and there were _more_, three people in the clearing, a woman older than the oldest Narnian he had seen, wise and wrinkled, and a man who stood beside her, young with piercing eyes and hair of mirror-bright silver. Both were also shining. They were silent, regarding the two by the thrones.

He spoke; he had to. "Who are you?" and his voice was shaking, a tremulous thing in a clearing filled with light. Every secret revealed, Sarah and himself seen as they were, and he had the urge to bow as before a lord, but could not. If he tried he would fall, his knees locked, fingers white, before the wisdom and the glory of their faces.

Before they answered there was one more flash of white; one more moment he closed his eyes or he would have been blinded. When he could see, there were eight people in the clearing. It was as bright as day, every shadow fleeing, every snow mound blinding. The sound echoed once again; under each of the feet of the eight the snow was gone (6).

"We are Aslan's own," said the first, fierce man; his voice was as deep as a lion's, but fluting.

"We come for the thrones," the woman said, gesturing towards the one facing the fire. Her voice rang as clear as a mermaid's haunting song, clear even through the noise of the fire. Two of the eight moved towards the throne of _Wisdom_; the first three walked towards the humans.

"You will travel with them across Jadis's country?" asked the carpenter. "How – she burnt us out tonight, her troops," his voice caught, trembling again, "they're everywhere." He dared not question, but knew not how to accept. How to give into other hands what he had made.

"We are beyond her reach." The two could not disbelieve, not these people. But – who were these soldiers, that even Jadis could not reach them? The closest man bent, fierce face close to the carpenter's own, but did not touch him. "Will you dance with us, across Narnia, to the castle of Cair Paravel, and see the thrones placed?"

"Dance – what are you?" Sarah asked, awe shaking her voice.

"We are the stars that dance across your sky at Aslan's command each night. We watch over this land."

"Tonight is the night Jadis enters Narnia," another chimed, voice as musical as a faun's flute; another old man, standing by Sarah. "Tonight we do not dance, but mourn. Our sky is dark with sorrow, and the many steps are still."

"We do as Aslan bids us," the man finished. "And He bid us carry the thrones to their place and help you flee." He held his hand out to Sarah. "Will you come?" She hesitated, tentative, but so slowly, placed her hand in the shining one. Two others placed a hand on each side of the throne she stood by, and beside the carpenter the fierce star reached his hand out. The carpenter looked at his own, black, and currently unable to feel, and placed it ruefully in the burningly bright hand held out to him. Two warriors – dancers – _stars_ stood behind two thrones and put a hand on either side; the last two took the last throne, a hand on each arm.

The carpenter could not tell people, later, what happened on that flight. Nor could Sarah. The stars moved through the air as gracefully as fish moved in the water, but they _danced_, their backs turned to the wind to block it from their passengers. By the slightest touch, their passengers were held easily in the air. The dark ground flew by too quickly to distinguish, and it seemed only moments before the stars were falling, steadily moving down, and alighting with another hiss on snowy battlements. The entire tower was light with white light, and the carpenter's breath caught in his throat to think of what that must look like, to any remaining Narnians, if they were watching. The six with the thrones glided forward, into the tower closest, and the two remaining kept hold of the humans' hands. They waited; for what, the carpenter did not know. But it was a very brief moment, of cold air, white light, and solid stone under their feet, before the stars were moving them into the castle as well. Through the halls, light with the light of the stars beside them, down, further in, farther down, and into a great, immense hall. Four of the six stood in each corner; two stood behind the four thrones, placed on a dais at the end of the hall. Sarah gasped, and grabbed the carpenter's hand in her free one.

They were beautiful. The stars, the thrones; the carpenter looked at his work and wondered that Aslan could have used him to make them. They belonged there, a solid promise of a future the carpenter had glimpsed of in his dreams.

"Sleep here tonight," the fierce star said. He let go of the carpenter's hand, and all the stars bowed. Sarah curtsied, and the carpenter bowed back, dazed. He wasn't sure he would sleep that night; he was still in so much pain. "Sleep," the star repeated, and touched his forehead (7).

The carpenter did not remember anything after that, save for a single dream. He and his wife were laying on the great hall, holding hands in their sleep, and Aslan Himself came and stooped over them.

_Well done_, He said, and the carpenter was overcome. Aslan bent down and touched him with his nose. _My good and faithful servant_.

The carpenter woke the next morning on the floor of the great hall in Cair Paravel, and Sarah was sleeping beside him.

OOOOO

A/N: There is an epilogue left, if any were wondering.

(1) For those who don't recognize him, I stole this character from Lewis, in LLW, in the Witch's courtyard when Aslan breathes on all the stone statues and makes them living again, there's an adorable lion who loved being a lion like Aslan, and had an incredible amount of energy.  
(2) I do not knit, but my sister has for years, and my mother does now too. They can, if knitting something they've done often, make it in about two hours, so I think it's pretty accurate timing.  
(3) Ibernstienmm graciously pointed out that the Witch claimed "Chatalaine of Cair Paravel" as one of her titles, but no usurping ruler of Narnia ever lived at Cair Paravel. We thought she'd want the title because it gives her authority, but could not claim it as her home.  
(4) I was really, really tempted to quote Madeline here, and put "Something was not right," but I felt the humor would break the tension of the scene. But it made me laugh enough I put it in a footnote. :)  
(5) This description is taken almost word-for-word from _The Last Battle_; I changed "spears" to "spear" but otherwise it's Lewis's words.  
(6) In _The Last Battle_ they burn the ground they stand on; the snow certainly couldn't stand before them.  
(7) I had thought I was giving the stars extra-cannon powers and didn't really like that, but didn't think a human could sleep in that much pain; and then Ibernstienmm reminded me that Ramandu put Lord Rhoop in a deep, dreamless sleep, so this is a canon power of a star. Yay!


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

They had one last command to fulfill; one last task. They had to flee.

"How?" asked Sarah practically, sitting against the wall of the empty great hall. They'd woken up and were hungry for breakfast; but going outside without a plan was something they both agreed was foolish. "The seas are currently frozen, at least a long way out. And we're not sure there's a ship there anyway."

The carpenter was sitting beside his wife, looking at the four thrones. It still seemed a miracle that they were there, whole, beautiful, having been placed there by _stars_. "If Aslan told us to go, there will be a way."

"We should find you some wood," Sarah said. "That way, if we _get_ to the open ocean, you'll at least have made us a boat or raft."

The carpenter paused and looked down at his hands. He had not told Sarah yet. It would be harder for her to hear of his hurts, he knew. "I cannot make it," he said quietly. He felt, rather than saw, Sarah's sharpening attention.

"What? Why?"

He did not know how to tell her. He did not know how to process it himself yet.

He held both hands out to her, black and leathery to the touch, he would guess; and she took them.

"I cannot feel that," he told her quietly. "I cannot feel anything in my hands." He couldn't meet her eyes. He could _see_ her hands, see them wrapped around his dark burnt flesh; but he could not feel anything.

And his work was often measured by the touch of his hands.

"But we got out. We got out, and you were alive, and-" Sarah broke off. He could see her hands holding his tighter, her fingers turning white with pressure, but still could not feel a thing. But she was holding herself still, holding off her doubts and anger, holding them to listen. It was more than she had done. "What will you do if you cannot feel in your hands?" she asked, and though there was pain, straining her words high, shaking her voice, there was not anger.

"I do not know," he responded. "But if I cannot make us a way out, it will be Aslan who provides one." He swallowed. The next words – they hurt, more than setting down his tools, more than the embers he'd clutched as they burned.

But less than losing Sarah.

Aslan had granted that request, the dearest to his heart.

"If the last thing I work on was the four thrones-" he broke off. He still couldn't finish.

"Then it's an honor beyond what we dreamed of," Sarah finished for him. She looked at the four thrones, and swallowed. "Back to fleeing," she said, and the carpenter shoved aside the heart-pressing grief to deal with this. Both of them could mourn later.

"We cannot flee from in here; our first step would be to go outside."

"And the first step is all we need to begin," she agreed, rising. "And there's another thing I want to do outside anyway."

They found their way outside. Eventually. Cair Paravel was empty, echoing, and a maze of corridors of stone. They ended up following glimpses of ice from windows, remembering a door that faced the sea. Once outside, Sarah took two mittens out of her pocket, filled them with snow, and gently slid them over her husband's hands. "Healing can begin here, and it's all I can do for now," she said firmly. He let her; this hope was important to her.

The sun was brilliantly shining; a different light from the stars, but warm. Sarah had her own mittens on, keeping the snow out, and together the two of them left Cair Paravel and the hope they'd suffered so much to give.

They walked towards the shore, and looked out over the frozen ice.

"I wonder," Sarah said, and the carpenter glanced at her warily. That tone was too often followed by something he did reluctantly. Often _very_ reluctantly.

"How solid do you think the ice is?" she asked, and lifted up on foot and placed it on the white sea.

It was _ice_. She slipped, fell forward, and rammed into the ice on one knee. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow" she griped, going from very loud to muttering as the pain diminished. She looked down without getting up. "Well, we know it's solid," she said, pointing; the carpenter looked. There wasn't a single crack on the ice. "Come on," she said, reaching up past his mittens to grasp his wrist. He smiled, and slowly, warily, slid his foot onto the cold ice. Step by slippery step, he inched forward, his wife right beside him. Preoccupied with their footing (and with getting up when they fell), they didn't think about how visible they were, two upright humans on a layer of flat, white ice. But visible they were, and very quickly seen, and from _in front of them_, not behind, came shouts, and at last they looked up (1).

There, beyond the ice, a hundred feet beyond where the water met its frozen form, was a ship, anchored; a familiar ship, one the carpenter knew the ribs of. And coming from it was a small boat.

The shouts increased, carrying across water and ice, and still the two fleeing Narnians inched forward, forward, towards the water; the ice began cracking under their feet. The other Narnians hastily threw them a rope, and the carpenter clumsily tied Sarah to it before lashing the end around himself, and the Narnians pulled them forward, right to the edge of the cracking ice, and the two tumbled into the boat. Hugs, from all they knew – and suddenly Sarah was lonely for the other types of hugs, short arms and furry paws, and it was _wrong_ to be with Narnians that were solely human – but they returned them, dark green mittened hands patting friends on the back and pulling themselves up onto a bench. The oarsmen were already rowing back to the ship, and soon the two were on board, exiles, not a tool or pack on their backs, but alive, tasks completed, and heading for a new home, where it was summer. The other exiles were generous, friends and neighbors lending from what little they had, and soon the small room set aside for the two (Aslan had sent a centaur to tell the boat to wait for them, before the winter fell – and the two were not the only ones to obey) was covered in gifts. The healer on board attended to the carpenter's hands, testing them for feeling; there was nothing in the palms. The healer did not know what would happen when the dead flesh fell off and new grew in its place; and the carpenter tried very hard to hope.

But his hope seemed worn out. Sarah, however, was hoping for him; she would, he knew, until he could hope again, or their hope was turned to something else.

It took a full day to sail to Galma, the island they were hoping would shelter them. In that time period the exiles told the carpenter they still needed him; they all had new homes to build, and if he could not make them himself, he could certainly teach them how to make their own. And he would be a good teacher, they agreed, and before he could quite get used to the idea they had it settled that he would be the teacher for the children at the new settlement, and a teacher for the adults when he wasn't busy otherwise. And that was easy to hope for, a purpose in his new life.

The next day they arrived, sailing for the other ships anchored beneath the cliffs, and rowing to shore, where many of the former exiles waited to greet them. One stepped forward, introducing himself as Pereth, a former lord of Narnia. The carpenter greeted him back.

"My name is Joseph. I am – I was a carpenter. I might be again some day." Pereth glanced down at his bandanged hands, then back up at his face.

"Jo-sep?" he questioned, sounding the name out.

The carpenter nodded. "It's a name from some forgotten stories the first king and queen told. I think he was a carpenter too."

OOOOO

(1) It is, by the way, entirely possible to pay so much attention to not slipping on ice that one may walk into doors, walls, cars, or decorative bricks on walkways. Probable, even, for naturally clumsy people. It's the funniest tunnel vision I've ever experienced, and I've had vertigo.


End file.
